


chatoyant  ((sym)pathetic)

by irrecular



Series: kings of gold [1]
Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: (somewhat in use), Abuse, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Betrayal, Blood Kink, Blood Play, Conditioning, Emotional Manipulation, Enemies to Lovers, Eye Candy, Imprisonment, Lima Syndrome, Modern Royalty, Power Dynamics, Revenge Sex, Rough Sex, Somewhat, Stockholm Syndrome, Torture, Unrequited Love, a lil, mentions of other kinks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 11:46:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19295101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irrecular/pseuds/irrecular
Summary: red ran around their bodies like gentle rose petals, cut from knives they lovingly used to tear each other apartortaeyong leads a tedious life - things only get interesting when a stranger infiltrates it.





	chatoyant  ((sym)pathetic)

**Author's Note:**

> this was meant to be like 2k words oof but yeh this took me the guts of a month to complete so i hope yall find it enjoyable
> 
> nothing is really super disturbing but if blood stuff freaks u out maybe this isn't for you.
> 
> https://m.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLkWHhTxQ3gSLZgUAA3ybL_khRhGBq_kKP  
> this is a playlist that helped me characterize yuta mainly, and form the overall tone of this story.

 

 

 

he saunters into the chambers, a grin plastered on his bloodied face.

 _he’s a madman_ , taeyong thinks.

he sits upon his throne - the centerpiece for his display of magnificence. bodyguards remain silent in the chamber, all but two confused by the entrance of a stranger - the two who brought him to taeyong.

he is forced to kneel before him, his grin falters into a grimace. it is sardonic nonetheless. a brand of his confidence.

“you are aware of whose country you are in?” his brown eyes reach the strangers, a darker brown, akin to black staring back.

“lee taeyong, high king of the korean states. it’s difficult to be ignorant of it,” he responds. he pronounces his name wrong - this is the first indication into who the stranger is.

 

 

 

his crown is rusty. rusty with the blood of hundreds that his family has on their hands. none of that matters to the lee monarchy - not publicly.

lee taeyong writhes in his sleep for hours knowing what his father did to the japanese states.

 

 

 

it’s four in the morning. two days since the stranger with acute eyes arrived. thrown into a cell, plans for him to be starved until he talks. he is baffled. the self-assurance exuded puts him on edge.

he must visit him - his presence is like fleas on his skin.

clothed in nothing more than a royal gown, he descends to the cells. only one is lit, most prisoners don’t last long in the royal cells.

taeyong breathes quietly, not wanting to alert the stranger.

“taeyong,” rings out through the stone walls.

“show some respect.” the stranger chuckles at this and moves. closer to the bars - taeyong can see his hands adorned with rings. they clatter against the steel bars.

“ah, taeyong. you lock me inside your domain and assume you deserve respect.”

“you arrived to my throne covered in blood. what makes you think you deserve mine?”

“does being righteous make you feel better about your sins?” he questions, and taeyongs silence gives him the answer.

he laughs again. taeyong approaches him in his cell and sits opposite him. he doesn’t give him the appreciation of looking at him. but when he does glance up at him, he finds that this stranger is staring back at him - has been since he came into view.

“name,” taeyong asks, phrases it as a statement but they both realise it’s a question.

silence.

“birthdate.”

nothing.

“nationality.” an exasperated laugh. it’s humourless. taeyong is visibly annoyed, ruffles his hair and shuts his eyes momentarily.

“why would a king bother so much to save a monarchy he cannot keep in power?”

“because we are not a monarchy of failures,” he snaps. the stranger grins widely, a mad look on his face at the emotional outburst - the insecurity of his position.

he thrums his fingers against the metal, clinking noise sharp against taeyongs ears.

“how is old king lee?” he taunts. taeyong grunts.

“dying. everyone knows. i’d suggest you stop the teasing and answer my questions otherwise-”

“otherwise what? you’re not going to execute me.”

taeyong gets up and leaves the cells, hearing the stranger remove the ringed hand from the bars.

_clink clink clink clink._

 

 

 

“you went to see the prisoner?” disappointment freelances around his mothers’ words. finds her words ironic coming from a woman who was never in charge of ruling her country.

but it’s hers nonetheless.

the director of the lee family's private secret service interjects - knows an argument could break out.

“how did he act, sir?”

“in control. like the cell was his own personal mansion house,” he shrugs, “i think it’s best if you deal with him.” the director nods, gestures for men to come with him.

 

 

 

they come back six hours later, cast in blood and sweat, swearing and complaining about the lack of information gathered.

"how injured is he?"

"he'll need basic medical assistance, sir. nothing you couldn't do." the director, code named ten stares him down, waiting for taeyongs response.

"you expect me to heal a possible murderer?" incredulity.

"he’s in a vulnerable state. if he were to give over information, it would more likely be to you - if you helped him, rather than his torturers, sir.” he nods, gets a basic first aid kit and goes to the cells. he's a pacifist.

 

 

 

the stranger is sitting on the floor, back against the wall, blood surrounding him.

“taeyong,” the stranger says, there’s the everpresent aura of confidence, but the recent damage of torture present as well.

taeyong isn’t at the cell yet. “step away from the cell doors, and stand away, back to the back wall.”

the stranger snickers. coughs. laughs again. coughs again.

taeyong ignores him. has to in order to stay in control. in order to not let this stranger think he has any element of control.

the doors creak, metal stiff from a lack of usage. the stranger is worse than what taeyong was expecting. he scans his body. aside from the liquid life coating his body causing taeyong to momentarily cringe, he admires his physique. the body of someone who can live _only_ with that physique.

he repeats what he said, frustration growing in his tone.

there’s a pause, a pensive silence rings throughout the cells. shuffling ensues, and the evident sound of someone trying to _not_ groan, release any sound of weakness.

he almost feels sympathetic.

taeyong unlocks the cell, intimidated under the gaze of this individual. he calms himself, not to let the keys shake against the lock. not to signify his distress. the strangers eyes are intense - taeyong feels himself pliant under them, but he has a safety net. it’s clear how affected the stranger is by the recent torture - his paler complexion is evidence enough. taeyongs strength is revitalised, the strangers gaze is persistant, but hooded. glaring but weak.

there’s no subtle bodily shivering and if it weren’t for the disgustingly metallic scent of iron lingering in the air and the visual representation of pain - taeyong might have mistaken his prisoner for resting. “shouldn’t pretty boys be ruling their states,” the strained voice begins, “instead of cleaning up a prisoner?” “

no one else cares enough about you,” taeyong murmurs, refusing to meet the gaze that bores into his being. just walks over to him and finds a wound he can focus on. he ignores the shallow breathing just millimeters above him. applies pressure to the wound and tries not to wince in second hand pain at his strangers grunts.

smaller cuts cover the lean expanse of his body, and taeyong briefly considers finding someone else to treat him. he doesn’t know if he’ll break being in his presence for too long. some require basic stitching - that’s what he does next. repressing sympathy.

his stitching is violent with his unwanted emotion.

the stranger is silent, except for the pained noises that taeyong knows aren’t intentional, are entirely subconscious - something that couldn’t be stopped willingly. he doesn’t know what feeling they evoke in his stomach. he just knows it flips at each release.

“it hurts.” the stranger is grinding his teeth together, an expression of anger - declining the easy option of vulnerability.

“i’m sorry,” taeyong says, repeats it a second time because he didn’t want this. doesn’t like violence, doesn’t like people in pain. he’s not a sadist, even if his image portrays his as one. the apology means something, there’s a long exhale - one of relief it seems. taeyong can’t place it.

“i need your name,” taeyong tries as he stitches a considerably larger wound closed. hopes the pain and attention will render this stranger confused, tell his anything he asks.

“and i need to get home.”

“i need you to tell me why you were found covered in blood.” he tries again.

“can you give me any indication of your identity? the sooner you cooperate, the sooner you’ll go home.”

nothing.

it doesn’t occur to him that yuta doesn’t understand the phrasing.

taeyong is exasperated. “anything.” he won’t meet the strangers gaze.

“please?” that evokes a reaction. blood rushes through taeyongs ears at the silence but he can hear a distant noise - animalistic in nature - coming from the strangers throat.

“i would,” he starts, shifting his body to face taeyong who now finally glances up at him, “but i would not be safe once i told you.”

“i guarantee your safety.”

“no you don’t. if i tell you, i’m signing my death warrant.”

taeyong sighs, begins to stand up. the stranger grabs him by the wrist and drags him back down, faces inches from each other. taeyong can’t respond, doesn’t compute how vulnerable he looks, allows the strangers eyes to puncture his. feels his breath fan against his face and lets himself study the other. he shows no emotion, but his eyes deceive him - there’s always the smugness he feels when dealing with taeyong. he promptly releases the king.

 

taeyong ignores the stitching left undone.

 

 

 

taeyong is awoken by ten, vigorously shaking him to consciousness.

“sir, the suspect released information.”

 

 

 

they sit by a table, and ten repeats what information he was given.

“after you left his side yesterday, we sent a medic hours later to ensure the suspect was alive. they finished the work you began, and fed him appropriately-”

“get on with it.” ten pauses, holding back a retort.

 _no one is sardonic to a king, no one but my prisoner_ , taeyong thinks in response to tens pause. his want for retortion.

“as we were securing the cell, he started talking. and at first it seemed unimportant but he began talking about four men being dead in the courtyard. at first it didn’t seem of much relevance, until i remember the circumstances in which we found the stranger, and exploring said area, four of the royal bodyguards were found, dead.”

“so he killed them. that’s obvious. what relevance is it of?”

“it’s of no relevance on the surface, sir. you don’t know much about the service other than it’s here. but the training required to become a bodyguard takes years to achieve - much less master. especially considering your status. the skill required to take them down is phenomenal - especially by someone that young. it leads us to believe that he has had sufficient training, and that it’s possible he is part of a service unit in another state.”

taeyong shifts in his seat, doesn’t want to acknowledge how uncomfortable that information makes him. he had an inkling that this prisoner came to him for less than positive reasons - but to hear someone like ten reaffirm this information sets his skin alight. he composes himself.

“have you begun investigating?”

ten nods. “we have spies in the secret service units of the german, malaysian, japanese and chinese states. if he has been sent here as some sort of assassination attempt then we are hoping that these services will have that as number one on their radars.”

“tell me when you have any more information,” taeyong demands, standing up.

the stranger is beginning to get under his skin, feels his presence like leeches attaching to his epidermis.

“yes, sir.”

he must gather more information.

 

 

 

taeyong is a modern king. adopts casual clothes instead of his familys’ jewels and overcompensating royal wears. it makes him feel more independent. he knows he’s nothing more than a king thriving off his fathers’ decisions.

he’s desperate to be a citizen - to be unknown to the eyes of the state.

 

 

 

he rushes to the cell.

the stranger is not given the luxury of a bed. he sleeps on the stone floor - and now he must sleep half naked. the state does not fund prisoners.

it’s a demoralizing scene to say the least, taeyong feels that nagging feeling of sympathy once more. a man capable of taking down four highly trained men - reduced to one sleeping on the floor of a partly-abandoned cell. to anyone else, it’d be satisfying.

before he even enters the cell, he takes his time to watch the man. taeyong is one of fragile masculinity - doesn’t want to admit that the sleeping form in the cell is ethereal, holds such a beauty in his features that taeyong wants to preserve him. he fights the admiration, doesn’t want such a useless emotion to persist in his actuality. he’s frightened of what he feels.

he unlocks the cell door, purposely making as much noise as possible to wake up the man. smashes the keys against the bars so it makes an awful clashing noise - the man wakes up instantly. eyes searching for the source and taeyong is allowed to see an entirely different emotion in his irises for the first time - the man is surprised. taeyong envies his self-assurance. is jealous of how well put together of a person he is. a man without fear. sitting up slowly, he stretches.

“why - taeyong-ah - how nice of you to visit me,” he introduces. smiles widely as if they were long time friends. taeyong wishes they were.

“good,” he checks his watch, three in the morning, “morning.”

“to what do i owe the pleasure of seeing you, my king,” yuta says, rolling the syllables off his tongue in a fascinating way. taeyong tries to place which district he’s from. whether or not korean is his mother tongue. taeyong sits in front of him, cross legged. ignores the way the prisoner blatantly stares him up and down. ignores the self-congratulatory ambience he radiates.

“you’re going to answer some of my questions.” taeyong says assuredly, takes notice of the disappointment flickering in the eyes of the other.

“were you expecting something else?” taeyong asks, cocking his head to look at his prisoner. a beat of silence passes - and taeyong keeps his assured facade on. can’t let this man sense a glimmer of fear. maintains the steady eye contact between him and the other. the other who just smiles. it puts taeyong on edge, it’s something he can’t read.

“my name is yuta. and that’s all i’ll give you for now. if you want more you’re going to have to do more than wear some tight clothes and act confident.”

 _yuta_ leans forward. and it’s gratifying to put a name to the face.

“it’s not an act, yuta,” taeyong repeats his name, rolls the syllables like he does himself. it gathers a reaction. make his eyes flash with emotions that taeyong cannot place. “i think it’s rude for you to speak to a king like that.”

“you gave me this cell. you came in here. this is my domain,” yuta says, voice still affected by previous events. it occurs to taeyong that he more than likely hasn’t been given any water since his arrival.

taeyong can’t respond to his logic - the lack of a response makes yuta smile and lean back. he rests his hands behind himself.

“i’d like it for you to answer me a few questions,” taeyong tries, just wants a reaction, “i’d really appreciate it.” yuta is silent.

“lie down,” yuta says. taeyong doesn’t understand, but knows that if anything - he shouldn’t. this is his kingdom, yuta is his prisoner.

but curiosity killed the cat. so he obeys - doesn’t even think about the cell door which is still unlocked. doesn’t think about how stupid it is to do anything a prisoner says. but he’s intrigued. “fucking idiot,” is what yuta says. there’s a lack of venom in the words, it’s just an affirmation of the truth. taeyong doesn’t sit up.

once again, there’s a beat of silence. taeyong hears shuffling - yuta is standing up. he’s still lying down. his breath is taken from his when yuta straddles him, legs either side of his pelvis. in a moment of self-courage he sits up, finding himself face to face with yuta again.

“pretty boy got brave didn’t he,” yuta mumbles, eyes scanning the young kings’ face. taeyong is immensely put off by how calm his prisoner is. he’s in an utter state of panic, but doesn’t want to voice it. probably doesn’t need to from how stiff he is, from his shallow breathing, from the complete moral panic in his eyes. yuta is still covered in blood, dried onto his toned form, and the wounds are still far from healed. it amazes taeyong that even in this state - he exudes such an imperturbable essence. it makes taeyongs mind reel. his words faltering and his logic short-circuiting as yuta presses a soft peck to the underside of his jaw, smirking against his porcelain skin at the gasp taeyong releases.

“get off me,” he announces, not wanting to lose his composure but knows that this scenario is far from a positive one - knows that if anyone were to come down and see this that he’d be thrown out of royalty. yuta ponders for a moment, staring the young king in the eyes before getting off him. he sits against a wall, watching taeyong have an internal emotional dilemma.

 _this is how i break him_ , yuta thinks.

“taeyongie,” he starts, holding back a grin at how flustered the other is. he waits until taeyong looks at him, or rather turns to him, because taeyong is incapable of making eye contact with yuta. he falls too deep in those pupils.

“it’s okay to want these things.”

taeyong leaves.

 

 

 

it’s been four days since his encounter with yuta. and it’s all he thinks about.

his psychological distancing from people is beginning to strike said people as odd - his father is worried.

he’s shaken by how much he liked being under yuta. so much so that he doesn’t want to sabotage any possibility of it occurring again. he can’t recognise that yet - he’s not only distancing himself from the people but from the problem. he is allured by yuta - and copes with it the only way he can - by avoiding it.

he doesn’t even tell the service his name.

ten takes his place - visits him everyday in order to extract information. taeyong is terrified - terrified that yuta will tell him something that will get him killed. something that’ll get taeyong is trouble. that he’ll skew the story.

he doesn’t.

 

 

 

it’s the fifth day (or night rather), and taeyong is restless. he checks his watch, and it’s only midnight.

he’s been aching to see yuta, aching to talk to him. he’s an enigma, and taeyong has to solve him. he’s trying to ignore the obvious - that every night, alone, thinking about the last time he saw yuta, he grows incredibly aroused. trys to ignore that the same is happening tonight.

his mind is soaring, and he feels guilty for wishing he let yuta do whatever he wanted with him. wishing that the moment he told him to get off that he just forced him to lie there and take it. it’s disgusting. taeyong is disgusting. he takes care of the need in his pants as a way to take care of the need for yuta.

 

 

 

“did you feed him?” taeyong asks absentmindedly whilst ten is talking.

“we gave him some water about three days ago. no food since i last informed you of it, sir.”

“have you let him wash?”

“no, sir.” taeyong nods. tries to feign his worry as interested.

 

 

 

taeyong brings ropes to the cell. jangles the keys along the bars to wake up yuta.

yuta who jumps awake, looking a lot more fragile than last time. taeyong could almost forget that he was the same self-reliant bastard that was in the cell almost a week earlier. despite only being imprisoned for a fortnight at most, the effects of his starvation are beginning to show.

they’re subtle, yutas body type hide it well. but the lines of his ribs are beginning to show, the dehydration aiding this visual. the cell reeks with the smell of blood and vomit - an indication to taeyong that despite having no orders, they have been torturing yuta for information. he’s sympathetic.

“taeyong.” it’s an assurance. an announcement of politeness.

“stand at the bars, hands behind your back,” taeyong orders, wringing the rope in his hands. apprehension passes through yutas eyes - eyes now wracked with exhaustion. he does what he is told, almost immediately, and taeyong can see a crack in his demeanor.

taeyong ties a simple knot around yutas hands. pulls them tight to make sure that he can’t have an escape attempt - not that he thinks he would.

“more exciting than i’d thought you’d be.”

“come with me.”

 

 

 

taeyong reaps the rewards of his familys’ monarchy. he owns an entire subsection to the castle, where his chambers lie. and as he leads yuta through them, he can tell by him that he is confused, perhaps worried.

“tell me something i want to know and i’ll let you wash, eat and drink.” taeyong won’t face yuta. doesn’t want yuta to use his feature to coerce him into something else. but he does (of course he does) and he’s greeted by an emotion akin to appreciation.

“let me wash first and i’ll tell you while we eat.” taeyong nods. he waits, doesn’t employ the assistance or protection of his guards. leaves clothes outside the door for yuta to change into. it’s oddly domestic.

twenty or so minutes later, taeyong is greeted by yuta in his clothes, and it gives him a palpable feeling in his stomach and how ill-fitting they are - showcasing his neck and collarbones in a way that is far from innocent in the kings’ eyes. if yuta notices his yearning, he ignores it.

taeyong is silent - gestures for yuta to follow him to the mess hall as he calls it. a long stretch of a room which beholds the kings loneliness.

he had one of his personal chefs cook up a meal. doesn’t ask yuta for a preference, assumes by the look on his food at the prospect of dining that he doesn’t need to. they sit in silence for a second, perhaps more.

there’s an agitation in the air, yuta hegemonized by taeyongs presence, unwittingly asking for permission.

“you can eat, yuta.” tension breaks, and yuta can be relieved, eats as if he was not starving. dismisses the opportunity to let taeyong see him impuissant.

“we did have an agreement however. so you will tell me something i want to know,” taeyong divulges, “i hope you’re a man of your word.”

“or what?” yuta questions, a teasing candence to his voice.

“are you suicidal? are you looking for a death warrant?” yuta smiles at this, a smile holding back laughter.

“you won’t kill me,” yuta assures, eating more of the food prepared. he demonstrates such mettle that it provokes taeyong.

“i doubt you can say that with one hundred percent confidence.”

yuta stands up, makes his way over to taeyong and drags the chair so it’s facing him. doesn’t bother to answer taeyong, doesn’t need to. he kneels between taeyongs legs, hands placed on the kings slender thighs. yuta looks up, has to hold back a simper at the blush rising to taeyongs face.

“what are you doing?” taeyong asks, keeping his voice as even as possible. struggles to ignore how having yuta - this diaphanous being - so close to where he wants him makes him go crazy. makes his blood burn in pure titillation.

“what do you _want_ me to do?” yuta replies, voice lowering a pitch and it throws taeyong for a loop. he’s losing himself and he feels it. feels his resolve crumbling, feels his blood rushing south, feels dizzy with yuta feeling up his thighs, hands coming alarmingly close to his clothed erection and it drives him crazy.

“i can tell you something you want to know,” he begins, “or rather, what you need to know. you’re painfully obvious taeyongie. ever since our little encounter last time, i know you’ve been thinking about it more. no one has a reaction like that without thinking about it again. i know why as well.” yuta stops talking for a moment, reaching up slightly to pull down the zipper of taeyongs jeans. unbuttons the button. taeyong doesn’t stop him. should but can’t. he watches yuta carefully, deciphering what he actually wants from taeyong.

taeyong can’t read him, and that’s what makes taeyong so nervous. he’s so used to being in control that he’s terrified of letting it be taken from him.

“why is that?” he asks shakily. he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, can’t keep them on his lap, can’t risk dropping his facade of not needing yuta by resting them in his hair. lets them hang by his sides.

“you’re so used to people being so surface level. doing their jobs, doing what they’re told. following your orders. you’re so used to people being scared of you that they do whatever you ask, no questions.” yuta places his hands to rest at taeyongs hips. “it must be awfully monotonous.” his voice drops to a whisper. his fingertips dip below taeyongs jeans, just slightly, and taeyong audibly gasps - fingers cold against his warm skin.

“i’m - i’m not sure if we should - if i should -”

“your body deceives you taeyongie. i don’t think you could get any harder, i don’t think it’s possible,” yuta teases, starting to tug taeyongs jeans down and taeyong moans softly, just from the prospect. yuta relishes in the soft noises from taeyong, pulls the fabric midway down his thighs and waits for a cue, waits for taeyong to urge him on more. taeyong is light-headed with how turned on he is. wants yutas mouth around him like nothing else. he would kill for it - would die for it. he needs it.

“i’ll give you what you want taeyongie,” he begins, sinking his fingertips underneath the waistband of taeyongs underwear, “but only if you tell me i’m right. tell me that the reason you want this is because you’re so bored of everyone else.”

and taeyong fucking whines. a high and needy sound forcing its way out of his throat. because he knows he can’t admit that. can’t tell the prisoner of his state that he wants him because he’s better than anyone else he knows. to say that is to denounce anyone he ever knew.

he stays silent and that’s all yuta needs to back off, returning to his seat opposite taeyong. taeyong, who promptly pulls his pants back up. runs a hand through his hair and calms his breathing. yuta looks at him knowingly, and taeyong realises that their dynamic has changed drastically - yuta looks at him like he’s a taxidermist that caught a rare animal. he’s so pleased with himself that taeyong can’t even look at him - can’t lose himself in his supercilious nature. he knows he will.

“i suppose you’ll be taking me back to my cell now.” yuta says it, doesn’t need to phrase it as a question.

“do you want to go back?”

“i want to go home.”

“i gave you a choice. stand up. hands behind your back,” he tries to retain his dominance. tries to tie yutas hands together as hard as possible to make it hurt. wants to leave bruises on his hands. wants to rip him apart. when he takes him back to his cell, yuta is quiet. for once, taeyong thinks yuta feels sorry for him. knows that taeyong is experiencing something close to a morality schism.

when taeyong locks the cell door and walks away, he ignores the clinking he hears from yutas rings.

 

 

 

taeyong visits yuta everyday. sometimes no words are voiced, yuta just staring at him - wondering when he’s going to break. soon enough, he lies for yuta. tells the service information he hasn’t been told, and says he’ll keep yuta in his bedchamber for easier access.

he conceals his contentment.

 

 

 

yuta has a sister.

 

 

 

taeyong distances himself further. now that yuta is in his vicinity he feels no need for other. barely gives time for his dying father. he is completely enthralled with yuta. he ignores the fleeting glances he gets from his acquaintances. ignores the questions of his sanity.

 

 

 

it all comes to an end - the sexual tension taeyong (and yuta, surely) must feel.

taeyong lies in his bed, and like the first time, yuta straddles him. no prior indication given. just a spontaneous action which is so wholeheartedly what taeyong expects from him.

“will you let me have you this time, my king?” taeyong doesn’t reply, knows yuta can feel his hard cock under him. his exhale of repose, and how he runs his hands up and down yutas’ sides are an indication enough. suggestive enough to have yuta pressing their mouths together in a kiss that, for the cocky prisoner, was gentle.

taeyong feels himself lose any domineering aura when yuta forces his tongue inside his mouth, bites down on his bottom lip, makes it bleed. taeyong forces down a whimper, feels himself growing needy. his hips buck as yuta wraps a hand around his neck, deepening their kiss further, making taeyong lose his mind.

that action alone rids taeyong of any tension in his body.

yuta breaks away, opting for marking up taeyongs neck. soft kisses escalate into gentle nips which become vicious bites, bruising the pale expanse of it. it makes him keen, whines high in his chest, makes yuta chuckle in victory. “good boy,” he whispers against his jaw, and the reaction it envokes makes yutas cock throb.

taeyong can still taste blood in his mouth - it makes him dizzy with how much he likes it.

they remove their clothes in a frenzy, taeyong aching for yuta to touch him. yuta does. he strokes taeyongs dick languidly, and taeyongs whole form lurches forward. the noise of yuta getting him off, needing nothing more than taeyongs precum which is leaking from his tip is disgusting. taeyong is disgusted with himself - knows what he’s doing is fucking filthy.

the act of fornication in this society is frowned upon, but he’s doing it with a prisoner - a stranger.

he’s pathetic.

he can’t think about that though - yuta has two fingers shoved in taeyongs mouth. he sucks and licks around them, moaning at yutas roughness. makes a show of looking innocent, wants yuta to destroy him. he gags when yuta tests his limits, forces his fingers to the back of his throat. his moans are unabashed, and it makes yuta smile maniacally. if yuta killed him right here, taeyong would let him.

“you’re so loud, who would have thought the nations pretty boy would be a slut for his prisoner, huh?” yuta teases, circling the tip of taeyongs cock with his palm - relishes in the aching sob that comes out of his mouth. it’s the possessiveness that yuta _knows_ taeyong has for him that makes him so needy.

yuta grips him by the jaw, “open your mouth, whore,” he says, and when taeyong complies he spits into his mouth, making taeyong moan in pure unabashed lust. the rough treatment, the treatment like he’s nothing more than a lower class prostitute in spite of him being a king has him throbbing. he feels something stirring in his stomach, a coil threatening to break at yutas ministrations. his hips are bucking constantly, can’t fight the urge when yuta is stroking him so good. he can’t even recognise his voice, overtaken utterly by pleas, yutas name, moans of pure unadulterated pleasure.

“what do you want me to do taeyongie?”

“fuck me, please yuta, fuck me, please please please-”

“shh, kings don’t beg now do they?” yuta thrusts his fingers into the young king with little warning, no gentleness. makes taeyong contort in a way that seems unnatural - only indication of pleasure from the taeyongs begging.

yuta makes it hurt. doesn’t take care for taeyongs delicate body, thrusts himself inside him with no qualms. groans when he’s at his hilt and taeyong chokes on his own spit in between choking on his moans. it’s fucking glorious. taeyong wishes he could voice this but it feels so good that he can’t do anything but take it. he feels yuta grabbing his hips to fuck himself in deeper, leaving marks that will form into bruises.

a temporary mark of passion.

taeyong wants more. he wants blood.

“yuta, yuta-hyung,” the honorific falls out of his mouth, doesn’t even realise what he said had any affect until yuta increases his grip on taeyong and lets out an animalistic groan, fucking deeper into the frangible boy beneath him.

“make me bleed, please, please hyung.” it takes a minute, but yuta complies. leans down so he’s more or less face to face with taeyong. bites on his shoulder until the stark red colour of blood covered the expanse of the skin. he forces taeyongs’ head up, kisses him like a maniac and taeyong groans at the taste of blood in his mouth - the taste of _his_ blood in his mouth. yuta slows his pace, grabs taeyongs cock and strokes it and taeyong can’t contain himself - cums all over yutas hand. clenches around yutas cock, still driving into the young king. it doesn’t take long before yuta follows, cumming inside taeyong who just moans lazily.

exhaustion takes over quickly, taeyong finds his eyes shutting closed after the rough treatment. doesn’t register it when yuta pulls out, only groans in pleasant after-pain.

“i think i’m in love with you, yuta-hyung,” taeyong murmurs, face squashed in the pillow.

“how do you know i’m your hyung?” yuta laughs, and taeyong whines in embarrassment. “come on, shower with me.”

taeyong doesn’t comment on the omission of a response.

 

 

 

taeyong is obsessed with yuta - makes him cum with his mouth alone.

yuta fucks him against the shower wall - taeyongs moans clear to hear, without a doubt.

 

 

 

his father dies. his father dies and suddenly taeyong is forced to take over completely. his father dies and suddenly, his position as king is ten times more important than it ever was.

then his mother dies - commits suicide.

she leaves a note. no referral to taeyong. ends it ambiguously. “you’re strikingly like him. it’s almost unnerving.”

taeyong cries for days, and yuta doesn’t know what to do. doesn’t know what to do with a king who is sex-repulsed.

yutas presence is like ice on taeyongs heated emotions.

 

 

 

taeyong sleeps - for days on end.

he doesn’t hear yuta talking to his bodyguards.

doesn't hear his mother tongue.

 

 

 

taeyong kisses yuta, softly in the late hours of the night. tells him that he loves him - the first time since his sex-exhausted state. yuta smiles and kisses his back.

lays him down and takes him apart, hour by hour, with his tongue.

 

 

 

taeyong must tell him every day - or close to that. he’s consumed with the pure adoration he has for this man.

taeyong reckons that he may be a madman.

he can’t help it. not when yuta has always been so good for him. so good to him.

for the first time in his life, he’s in love.

 

 

 

they fuck constantly. yuta indulges in all of his fantasies. makes him cum over and over until he’s pissing himself. stops him cumming and fucks him for hours until the only satisfaction he gets is a dry orgasm that makes taeyong cry.

yuta has started making him bleed more - it makes taeyong needier than anything. makes him needy during their heated ruts when yuta slices down his skin with knives. makes him needy when he sees the scars of their love.

they’re a permanent reminder of their actions.

 

 

 

he wakes up to banging on his door. it’s loud - frantic. he jumps up in bed, and is surprised to see yuta sitting on a chair - an unreadable look on his face.

“what’s going on?” he asks, voice laced with the heady effect of exhaustion. rubs his eyes slowly, heart racing from the crashing occuring outside his bedchamber doors.

yuta stands up and walks over to taeyong, the high king of the korean states. pushes him down with his hand until he’s lying down again. taeyong feels no urgency, not when his love is above him.

his hair covers his eyes, and on anyone else it’d look disreputable but it’s yuta and yuta’s perfect. taeyong would die for this boy.

“oh you sweet thing,” yuta begins, caressing taeyongs face gently, “you fell hard didn’t you?” the words could be mistaken for a conversation between two lovers. taeyong is confused. doesn’t understand what yuta means. yuta sees this - smiles weakly at the kings’ face.

“see taeyong-ah,” he starts, then pauses, allows taeyong to gather his thoughts, “you have indulged in many things that would classify you as a traitor to your state. this will be hard to hear taeyongie, but i preface this by saying that there’s no judgement on my part. in fact, i’m certain you will be honoured for years to come as the last king of the korean states. and i’m sure that people will honour you for what you tried to do. but while you have been prioritising your time with me, bonding with me, taking me cock up you, there’s been huge plans among your people. among your service.”

taeyong exhales through his nose, attempts to stay calm. he hates to admit it, having yuta above him calms him.

there’s gunfire several rooms away. the walls are thick but it’s overt to hear.

“yuta-hyung, i don’t understand-”

“see baby,” he throws the pet name around, all feeling evaporated from the word, “once again, i’ll precede that i personally had nothing to do with this. all i had to do was distract you, my king. you’ve been with me for the better part of three months, taeyong-ah. it’s impossible that i could have done anything. see, the only thing i can say i lied about is about not knowing anything.” yuta pauses, a shining smile appearing on his face at the sound of more gunshots.

“that, my friend, is the sound of a military coup,” taeyong tries to overpower yuta, throw him off himself, “and when they find you down here - fucking around with a “prisoner of war” - do you know what’s going to happen?”

taeyong is silent. “fucking answer me,” yuta demands, briskly slapping him across the face. his accent dances around his words, it makes it hard for taeyong to understand.

“n-no.” yuta fucking preens. his hands comes up to caress taeyongs face again, pets his hair and runs his hands through it. instead of holding him down, he straddles the korean king. taeyong hates how his blood settles.

“they’re gonna find you down here with me, and they’re going to overthrow your sorry fucking excuse for a monarchy. they’re going to drag you to a filthy cell somewhere, and when the time is right, you will be brought to the city hall and you will be shot in front of all of your subjects. i will be released, i’m nothing more than a prisoner of war. and then, when everything is beginning to come into place - i will lead my nation into this state, and i will take what is rightfully mine.”

his breath hitches. it connects.

nakamoto yuta. infamous japanese terrorist.

yuta smiles again. "you understand now my taeyongie, my king."

he stops holding taeyongs hands down, and interlocks them with his own. the gunshots get closer. heavy footsteps make their way down the hall to the cell. gently - as if taeyong would break - he presses a kiss to his lips, ignoring how taeyongs hips buck in response.

taeyong is broken, feels his heart shatter into millions of pieces. can’t even comprehend what’s happening.

“why?” taeyong sobs, clutching onto yuta who coos and pets his back.

“oh, if i were to tell you the things your family did to mine, i fear you’d kill yourself before ten could do it for you.” taeyong cries into his chest.

“thank you for falling in love with me," and yuta sounds so genuinely grateful. it makes taeyong think that maybe - just maybe - this was all worth it. to make yuta happy.

on cue, three military soldiers, adorned in clothing chosen by the former king reach the room. pointing their guns at the two of them, they gesture yuta to leave the bed. two of said soldiers drag taeyong away from the bed in his half naked state - a traitor to his state. he hears very little through the sound of blood rushing through his eyes, the firing of guns from across his property, the heavy weight of boots stomping on the floor.

“state your identity.”

“kim yanhae,” yuta answers one of the most fluent sounding accents taeyong has heard.

it’d have to be now, he supposes.

 

 

 

taeyong is lying on his makeshift bed - a bed made for kings.

he’s in chains. chained to a bed like a rabid dog, collared just for fun. just to make his final days suffocating.

taeyong misses yuta. his presence calms him more than anything.

“taeyong-ah,” he hears, slurred in the cell chambers, and his heart races. he is calmed. another voice giggles, and taeyong hears the two of them stumble until they are in front of his cell. he meets yutas eyes as he’s thrown against the cell bars, pleading. asking for his affection, begging for his attention. he needs him. he needs to feel his touch once more. but yutas eyes have a sharp glint in them, intent not to heal, but hurt taeyong.

jaehyun - taeyongs longest lasting bodyguard - fucks yuta against the bars until he’s babbling nonsense. fucks him hard, so that his forehead smacks against the steel, so that taeyong is urged to go to him, touch him, care for him. jaehyun slows up, speeds up, makes yuta scream, cry, whimper, everything.

_you’re strikingly like him. it’s almost unnerving._

yuta cums with jaehyuns name on his lips, watches taeyong fold into himself. smiles when he sees how taeyong glares at his former protector. “cat got your tongue?” yuta whispers, grinning maniacally as taeyong stares back - begging.

as the two of them stumble away from the scene, the cells is stuffy with taeyongs despondency.

 

 

 

his execution comes four days later.

it happens just as yuta says; in the city hall, in front of the people he used to call his subjects.

he meets yutas gaze from his seat. there’s tears on his cheeks, coming down in rivlets. if it wasn’t for the gag in his mouth, he would be begging for his life. ten stares at him - looks at his pathetic form.

he sees yuta flash him a blinding smile before the shot fires.

taeyong smiles back.

 

 

 

 

twelve days later, the japanese states officially invade.

due to the dissolvement of the monarchy, power is gained easily.

for all of his work, yuta sits upon the throne - a usurper. he is rewarded by the public.

high king lee taeyong turns in his grave.

**Author's Note:**

> comment if i need to add tags uwu  
> just comment in general uwu
> 
> hmu to be friends


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